


Audience Of One

by dykeannebonny, ThirdActLove



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, B.J. & Peg lavender marriage, Episode Related, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, S5E04, S5E14, S6E12, Secret Relationship, it's never stated but you can rightfully assume margaret is a lesbian, seasons 4 - 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeannebonny/pseuds/dykeannebonny, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirdActLove/pseuds/ThirdActLove
Summary: Hawkeye and B.J. navigate the difficulties of being in love during the war, not at all aided by their unit's constant interruptions.(Or, five times Hawkeye and B.J. are almost caught, and the time they are.)
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 85
Kudos: 171





	1. Corporal Klinger

**Author's Note:**

> Posting schedule: We'll publish one chapter each day this week until all 6 are up, so you can read along or wait until the last chapter is published on Saturday and read it all at once!
> 
> Important Notes:
> 
> We all know and love Repressed Gay B.J. and all the yearning that accompanies that, but for the purposes of this fic, B.J. is aware of his own homosexuality and involved in a happy and comfortable lavender marriage with Peg. Is this primarily because I wanted to write gay jokes and flex my knowledge of 1940/50s gay culture? Maybe so.
> 
> Hawk's still got a little repression going on though, as a treat.
> 
> This was somewhat inspired by "THE WAR WILL TURN US TO MONSTERS (I NO LONGER RECOGNIZE YOU)" [J.M]
> 
> “we’re in love during the war.  
> does it make each moment more precious,  
> or does it make each moment more difficult?”
> 
> Edit: Since someone mentioned it, here we go--we use the term "gay" twice in this fic. The more popular terms in the 50s were of course queer and homosexual; however, at least as early as 1938, "gay" was used to mean homosexual. Famously, it was spoken to mean homosexual in the movie "Bringing Up Baby" starring Cary Grant (questioned as to why he is wearing a flamboyant women's style robe, the character replies, "I just went gay all of a sudden!"). Because Hawk is a movie lover and because he likes puns, we chose to use gay. It's not anachronistic!

There were hot nights, and then there were the nights that must have earned the Swamp its title. Although the sun had set hours ago, the air still stunk like everything was being roasted alive, like sweat and hot rubber and strange plants. Dust and moisture battled for sapping up the most clean air, though they declared enough of a truce to soak deep into B.J. Hunnicutt’s clothes, lungs, and pores.

He turned over. He shimmied against the lumps in his cot. He screwed his eyes shut until he had a headache. Still, the buzzing insects, croaking frogs, and restless sounds from his other roommates kept him wide awake.

Flipping onto his side, B.J. opened one eye to peer at Hawkeye, who looked as if he’d dunked his torso in a particularly slimy river. If he could sleep during this heat wave, B.J. was going to kill him. But that would take too much energy. So, he settled on watching him doze, hoping he himself would drift off by counting the lines on Hawkeye’s face.

The lines around Hawkeye’s mouth shifted as he smiled. “You watching me sleep, Beej?” He yawned, rubbed his bleary eyes, and balanced his head in his hand as he regarded his friend.

“Nope,” B.J. answered neutrally, knowing full well he’d been caught. His stomach fluttered with nerves. Throwing himself back onto the flimsy excuse for a mattress, he added, “Just jealous you can sleep.”

“‘Sleep’ is a generous term for it. I’d say it’s more like swimming with my eyes closed.” Hawkeye gestured to his sopping wet pajamas. “Look at me! It looks like I jumped headfirst into a river, but forget the rest of me.”

B.J. grinned. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Hawkeye sighed before standing and reaching for his robe. He stared at it for a second before leaving it on its hook and looking over his shoulder at B.J.. “Present feet, Hunnicutt.”

“It’s--” He checked his watch. “--4 A.M.!”

“I’ll talk to the Fairy Godmother and make sure she doesn’t turn you into a pumpkin. Come on!”

Frank was snoring open-mouthed on the other bed. Hawkeye was licking his lips and fighting a smile, framed by the night sky. B.J. didn’t think that was much of a choice at all. Scrambling up, he pulled on socks and boots, tied them tight, and joined Hawkeye.

Outside the tent, the air was honey-thick and seeping into B.J.’s skin at a rapid pace. He brushed sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’ll never be able to sleep in this.”

Hawkeye hummed. “Let’s write to MacArthur, tell him to only invade temperate countries from now on.”

B.J. chuckled, then remembered he was staring. The sight of Hawkeye’s bare legs, of his shirt clinging to his chest, made B.J. want to invade a few things a little closer to home. Those, however, were thoughts better suited to lonely nights, not strolls in the compound with a friend.

Hawkeye led them in a winding path, seemingly without destination. Of course, letting their feet carry them brought them to the closed Officer’s Club, and they shared a hearty laugh at that.

“We could break in,” Hawkeye suggested.

B.J. couldn’t tell if he was joking. He said, “Could be fun,” then started for the door.

“Aw, no no no.” Hawkeye dragged him back, blunt nails digging into B.J.’s arm--not quite painful, but approaching. Sweaty palms slid against sweaty forearms until Hawkeye released him and looked sheepishly away. “Who knows what the two of us will get up to drunk and alone.”

B.J. grinned widely. “All the more reason.”

The corner of Hawkeye’s lip turned up, and he leaned back a bit, eyes bright. “To think you have this naughty side and I’m the only one who knows about it.”

“Well, you and my wife.”

Hawkeye cocked his head. “What?”

“Nothing, nevermind.” B.J. shook himself before inclining his head away from the Officer’s Club. “What do you say we head back the other direction, find out if we both go the same way.”

“If I’m left to wonder, I’ll wander all the way home.”

“I’ll stay close, then.”

B.J. itched to wrap his arm around Hawkeye’s waist. Even though he’d touched him a hundred times, it felt different that night. It felt scandalous--not like they were misbehaving, exactly, but like it was still a secret, and B.J. resolved to change that. There would be no more flying under the radar or dropping hints and hoping Hawkeye would pick them up.

They walked to the edge of the road behind the hospital, boots scraping against the dirt as they slowed, turned, and looked at one another. Hawkeye spoke first, and through a smile. “Your travel agent upsold this place, you know. The views aren’t nearly as good as the ones in the pamphlet.”

“I don’t know about that,” B.J. replied quietly. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared at Hawkeye unblinkingly.

Hawkeye made a noise in the back of his throat that turned into a short, low laugh. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re not,” Hawkeye insisted, waggling a finger. Contrary to his words, however, he stepped closer until that finger was stuck squarely against B.J.’s sternum. “Besides, I don’t make it a habit to kiss and homewreck.”

B.J. covered Hawkeye’s hand on his chest, and then grabbed the other. He stood, looking at their fingers intertwined, and shook Hawkeye’s arms. “Hawkeye.”

“Yeah, Beej?” The question was urgent, the anticipation unguarded in his gaze.

“Who said anything about homewrecking?”

Hawkeye groaned. "Beej--"

"Please, Hawk. Listen to me. Peggy and I are the greatest of friends. And Erin is everything to us; I mean, we both always wanted a family, so we made one together. I love Peg because she's a wonderful mother--"

"And you're a perfect father and faithful husband," Hawkeye argued, trying to pull his hands from B.J.'s grip. B.J. held on tighter.

"Hawk!" He stepped closer and caught Hawkeye's gaze. "I'm a great father, but Peg doesn't need me as a husband for any reason not on paper." He cleared his throat before continuing, quietly and deliberately, "Our... our being Erin's parents doesn't make us husband and wife in, well, the traditional sense."

Hawkeye scoffed. "Did you miss the lesson on where babies come from?"

B.J. chuckled, shuffling his feet. He had an urge to smooth the skin around Hawkeye’s eyes, touch his mouth. Instead, he explained, "Beyond what we had to do to start our family, we'd never, will never--." He sighed heavily, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to find the words. "She prefers to play nurse, you know? And I, uh, would rather play doctor."

Hawkeye blinked slowly. He stuck his chin out, narrowed his eyes, and crossed his arms. “What are you talking about? Peg’s not a nurse. If she was, she’d be over here with you and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“We still would!” B.J. bit back his frustration, smothering down all the sparks in his stomach. But he knew his mouth was all twisted up, and he could feel the muscles in his neck straining--and even though he knew Hawkeye did, B.J. asked, “Don't you understand?”

“Play it again, Father, I'll see if I can pick out the tune this time."

B.J. shook his head, rolled his eyes, and explained as dryly as possible, "We're fond of singing _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_.”

Hawkeye finally managed to slip away. He crossed his arms and replied, "Who isn't?"

B.J. threw his hands in the air. "But now you're being deliberately obtuse!"

"I happen to be much more acute than that, thank you very much."

"And I happen to be gay, thank you very much."

They were so close B.J. felt Hawkeye’s surprised exhale against his cheek. B.J. waited for more words, or more breaths, but was met instead with Hawkeye’s collapsed shoulders and blank face, his eyes small and scared. The mirth was gone.

B.J.’s smile fell. He released Hawkeye’s hands to scratch at his own neck, hard enough to leave red marks. There was burning cold metal driving into the spaces between his ribs. The pain made him dizzy. He couldn’t believe he’d miscalculated, misread, misattributed. Hawkeye was always just playing around, and B.J. had been a fool to expect another meaning. He started backing away before he could ruin anything else.

Hawkeye brought B.J. back to him with one small, grounding kiss; he took B.J.’s face in his hands and pressed their mouths together, and it was as if Hawkeye were sewing up an exit wound that B.J. had never found on himself. Practiced hands, vertical mattress stitches with white cotton sutures. Hawkeye stepped away--patient closed. Yet his hands lingered.

Their eyes only met for a moment before they dissolved into laughter, silenced only by more kisses and fond exclamations to shut up. B.J. smiled against Hawkeye’s mouth. And then he curled one hand into Hawkeye’s shirt, pulling at the fabric until his thumb grazed Hawkeye’s skin.

Hawkeye hummed appreciatively and deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into B.J.’s mouth and his palm against B.J.’s neck. The ridges of Hawkeye’s ribs, the thrum of his heart, the curve of his spine--B.J. wanted to feel it all and more. He managed to get them moving, turning Hawkeye and walking them back until he could push Hawkeye against the walls of the hospital. He smothered Hawkeye’s complaints about getting knocked around with a nip to his bottom lip. They clung to each other in the dark, laughing and kissing like a pair of fools in the backseat of their car at a drive-in.

B.J. had his teeth on Hawkeye’s collar when a stern, severe voice sounded from a few feet away. “Who goes there?”

They scrambled apart in an instant, fixing their clothes, running hasty fingers through messy hair. B.J.’s chest heaved as he stared through the darkness toward that voice.

From the shadows, a few yards of silk with some hairy legs emerged. Klinger wore a knee-length pleated skirt, a blue blouse, and a frown that quickly turned upside down. “Captains!” he exclaimed as he shouldered his weapon. B.J. waved half-heartedly, offering a tight-lipped smile as a greeting. Hawkeye slammed his head against the wall behind him.

“Sorry, Captains, but I heard all that noise and thought someone must’ve been fighting,” Klinger explained. He eyed them carefully. “You weren’t fighting, were you? It won’t do anybody any good to have our surgeons busted up. By each other, no less!”

“No, we weren’t really fighting,” B.J. replied, struggling to keep his voice even while his lungs sought the air he’d been denying them. “Just fooling around.” B.J. smiled and folded his arms across his chest. Hawkeye shot him a signature Pierce-ing glare, which only made B.J. smile more broadly. Klinger looked between the two of them, forehead wrinkling, and B.J. amended, “We just needed to go for a walk, get some fresh air.”

Klinger laughed. “I recommend taking your next stroll somewhere with less snipers. As for the fresh air, good luck in this heat.”

“I tried to tell him,” Hawkeye interjected, “but he just insisted we come out.”

B.J. rolled his eyes, dragged his heel across the dirt, and started walking.

Behind him, Hawkeye started to hum _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_.


	2. Radar O'Reilly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during Season 5, Episode 4 "Out of Sight, Out of Mind," when Hawkeye is temporarily blinded.

Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt finished the latter’s final round of post-op together. B.J., in the dashing role of seeing-eye-dog, performed beautifully, his arms never straying too far out of Hawkeye’s reach. Hawkeye, in the role of the fool, left every patient laughing and left Frank Burns steaming more than an overboiled kettle.

Colonel Potter’s orders were local R&R, so B.J. took Hawkeye to the Swamp with promises from all doctors and nurses to stay away for at least an hour. On their way there, no one commented on Hawkeye’s arm and the way it snuck under B.J.’s. There were no arguments presented against their interlaced fingers. Despite the foul mood his temporary blindness had brought him, Hawkeye couldn’t knock the freedom that accompanied the injury.

“Watch your step,” B.J. cautioned.

Hawkeye listened to the door open and close. The wood creaked loudly, and the screens rattled angrily. The scent of body odor and homemade gin wafted from inside.

“After you, darling,” B.J. teased. He started pulling down the outer venting while Hawkeye stared at the empty darkness that should have been their door.

The tightness in Hawkeye’s chest expanded. He inhaled, exhaled, and then quipped, “You aren’t gonna carry me over the threshold?”

“Sure, if you carry me first.”

They laughed. B.J.’s laugh was a jazz solo, daring and rich and playful. Hawkeye had always liked the sound of it, but recently he appreciated it even more. It was sunshine in the middle of cold, clattering surgical instruments, and music amidst guttural jeep motors.

Hawkeye walked inside on his own. Self-sufficiency was the way; or, that’s what he kept telling himself. Upon entry, of course--not even two feet in--he slipped and fell.

B.J. caught him. “Watch your step,” he repeated.

Underneath the amusement, Hawkeye heard a whiff of worry. That wouldn’t do. He pressed his hands against B.J.'s abdomen, skimming his fingers over soft cotton and lean muscle. " _Wash_ my steps, won’t you?” Hawkeye sniffed. “Oh, nurse," he crooned, "I'm overdue for a sponge bath."

There came a burst of warm breath near Hawkeye's ear. B.J. asked, light and lilting, "Is that what they're using these days? Was the porcelain too expensive?"

“Yeah, you know, the cost was too absorbent.”

Hawkeye folded himself against B.J., head on his shoulder, nose pressed against his neck as if they were engaging in some overly friendly ballroom dancing. B.J. picked up Hawkeye’s hands. And he picked up a tune, humming as they twirled around the Swamp.

Clumsy steps were drowned out by gentle laughter. Hawkeye bumped into furniture and stumbled over piles of clothes. Fear--of tripping, mostly--and happiness--about B.J., always--competed to get Hawkeye’s heart as far up his throat as possible, but the race was over when B.J. slowed their foxtrot to a waltz. His hand, reassuring and just the perfect sort of too-tight, clutched at Hawkeye’s back.

“Beej.”

B.J. stopped humming, but not moving. They swayed in place while Hawkeye spoke into B.J.’s skin. “What if this is permanent?”

“This waltz? I think our feet will get tired.”

Hawkeye swatted at him. “I’m serious,” he muttered even as a grin crept onto his face. It disappeared, though, as he continued, “They’ll send me home.”

“You want to go home.”

Of course he wanted to go home. Since the start of his service, Hawkeye Pierce’s singular goal was to return to Crabapple Cove in one piece after sewing up all the boys who’d been shot to pieces. The war enjoyed throwing wrenches--and napalm--into that plan. Hawkeye hadn’t thought there could be more surprises in store than enemy attacks at dawn, corporals in nylons, or surgeries done in the dark. And then he’d gone and fallen in love amidst the blood and bullets.

Slowly, surely, home had become wherever B.J. Hunnicutt was. He tried to tell B.J. that, but all that came out was, “The worst part is… I won’t be able to see the nurses cry when they ship me off.”

B.J. sighed, unwound his arms, and led them to Hawkeye's cot. They sat, letting the joke dissipate into the air, waiting around for those somber stakes to settle back in. Hawkeye shivered. B.J. laced their fingers together over their knees, which were pressed so close together that Hawkeye could hardly tell where his leg began and B.J.’s ended.

“So.” The bed creaked as B.J. shifted closer. His hair tickled Hawkeye’s cheek, his lips graced the side of Hawkeye’s mouth. “So you go home, and the war goes on. The war goes on, and I still love you.”

Hawkeye had never been a religious man. He knew what confession tasted like, however, when he whispered, “I’ll still love you without a war on.”

“How do you know? You’ve never done it. Maybe you won’t love me after 6,000 miles.” B.J. didn’t sound sad, just practical, as if they were debating the chance of survival for a hypothetical patient. “What changes?”

“Nothing.”

B.J. made a derisive noise.

One of Hawkeye’s hands curled into a fist and he drove it down on the flimsy mattress. He wished he could see B.J.; he would have given anything to look into his eyes, but he settled on the next best sense. “Listen to me, Beej!”

“Hawk, I am--”

“Distance be damned! I’d love you over 6,000 miles and I’d love you over the six stupid inches between our stupid hearts right now.” He reached out to where he imagined B.J.’s head was. When his knuckles brushed B.J.’s jaw, he turned his hand so he could cup B.J.’s face. “And I’ll be there waiting for whatever version of you comes home to me.”

B.J. caught Hawkeye’s wrist, though he didn’t pull him away. He held him, and Hawkeye didn’t need his vision to know how much he wanted to kiss him. It was simply there, that tug, that tether, that thing that had stuck a flag in Hawkeye’s heart the day they met and declared, _This belongs to him now._

“I’d change.” B.J.’s practicality had a bitter edge. “I can’t be here without you and not change.”

“I don’t care.” Hawkeye kissed B.J.’s palm.

B.J. fought a smile, lost, and kissed the bridge of Hawkeye’s nose. “You’d change.”

“I doubt it. I’m keeping this robe on forever.”

“That so?” B.J.’s voice pitched high, and his hands snaked over to the robe’s tie, unwinding it, pulling it off Hawkeye’s hips. “I’m not crazy about it. I’d like to try a different model, if you have one on the lot.”

“Headlights are broken,” Hawkeye warned as he felt his way around the cot, kicking his legs up. B.J. snorted while they both toppled around gracelessly, two wrong moves away from the floor at any given moment.

The robe vanished. There were cold hands under Hawkeye’s sweat-soaked shirt. B.J. murmured, his tongue outlining where that shirt used to be, “Not a problem if you’ve got a good driver.”

“So,” Hawkeye grunted. “Let’s give it a test drive, Captain.”

Hawkeye had cursed his lack of sight for many reasons that day: primal terror, the inability to operate, and simple frustration among them. Not being able to watch B.J. strip was, in a very selfish, private way, one of the worst consequences.

Still, it was thrilling to hear the clink of his belt buckle, the rustle of his fatigues, and the melody of his dog tags as they hit his bare chest. Hawkeye was so preoccupied with those delicious noises that he almost--almost--missed the siren wailing outside.

“No,” Hawkeye groaned.

B.J.’s mouth met Hawkeye’s collarbone. “I’m going,” he sighed, but his teeth were still grazing skin. Hawkeye’s back arch as B.J. sucked at his neck. “This is me getting dressed.” More clothes hit the floor. “I’m gone.”

“If you’re gone--ah--then who's got a grip on my--”

B.J. smirked, Hawkeye moaned, and the entire Swamp rattled as the door was ripped wide open. Hawkeye was compelled to jump away, but he settled for lying back and trying not to have a heart attack as B.J. leapt through enough hoops for the both of them. On his disastrous, daring retreat to his own cot, there wasn’t a single swear word unutilized nor a side table left unturned.

Radar wheezed like he’d run from the other side of Korea. “Cap’n Hunnicut, sir, you’re needed, oh, oh no, you’re naked.” Radar’s feet scampered around 180 degrees.

“I’m coming--”

“At least one of us is,” Hawkeye muttered, low enough for only B.J. to hear. He wished he could see those exasperated blue eyes dart his way. He laughed just imagining them, at least.

B.J. cleared his throat. “I’m _leaving_ right away _._ My uniform had blood on it,” he explained calmly. “If you would give me a moment to change?”

“Oh, yes, sir, of course, sir…” Radar was still fumbling through honorifics when the door shut behind him.

The Swamp fell silent except for B.J.’s methodical collecting of his discarded clothes. The cot was getting cold in his absence. Hawkeye said as much to the quiet room, and B.J. walked over to him right away, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to Hawkeye’s forehead.

“Until later, lover.”

He was two steps shy of his _exeunt_ \--followed by Hawkeye's heart, naturally--when Hawkeye asked, "Beej?"

"Yeah?"

"Do that a couple hundred more times, would ya?"

The wail of the siren returned, carrying with it B.J.’s soft, "At least."


	3. Major Frank Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments so far! We're thrilled people are enjoying reading this as much as we've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> This chapter is based around the events of Season 5, Episode 14 "Hawk's Nightmare," but is shockingly not the angstiest of the chapters.
> 
> (Also, tomorrow's chapter is my -- dykeannebonny's -- favorite of the 6, so I hope you're all looking forward to it!)

After Sidney’s visit, B.J. redecorated.

More accurately, he rearranged; he performed the easiest transplant the MASH unit had ever seen, dragging his cot from his corner of the room to Hawkeye’s and jamming them side-by-side against each other. It wouldn’t be a comfortable night’s sleep, but sleeping on those glorified paper plates never was.

B.J. put his hands on his hips as he surveyed his work. He’d tossed all their pillows together and stretched a blanket across both mattresses so it could almost-maybe be mistaken for a single bed. A shared bed.

If only.

Shaking his head at himself, he snatched up the latest Crabapple Cove newspaper, flung himself onto his half of their Frankenstein's monster of a cot, put his feet up, and skimmed the headlines. There were fishing success stories, birth and wedding announcements, recommendations for boat care during the season. It sounded like a wonderful place to live.

From his periphery, B.J. caught Hawkeye walking toward the Swamp. He smiled, doing his best to appear casual, and waited.

“Beej,” was the first thing Hawkeye said. He had dark circles under his eyes, a heaviness to his step, but when he said B.J.’s name, it was with that starstruck, first-date kind of amazement, the happiness that couldn’t be exhausted by even a million nightmares.

B.J. raised his eyebrows, peering over the paper. “What?”

“Beej.” Hawkeye walked closer until his knees hit the edge of the occupied cot.

“I didn’t do anything! I don’t know what you’re--”

He was cut off when Hawkeye fell face-first onto him, tangling him in a gangly pile of limbs and laughter. B.J. wrestled him right back. He tossed the newspaper onto the floor, then attacked Hawkeye with renewed enthusiasm, using every trick from tickling to surreptitious kisses.

The sun had just set, giving them plenty of cover when they finally stopped to breathe. Hawkeye curled up against B.J., gasping for breath while B.J. alternated between giggling and inhaling fresh air and the scent of Hawkeye’s shampoo.

Once he’d recovered enough, B.J. prompted, “Sorry I picked out our first bed without you.”

Hawkeye nuzzled into his neck. “As long as it helps me sleep.”

“Helps _you_ sleep? No way. I did this to make more room for me.”

“Right.” Hawkeye closed his eyes. He yawned, folded his arms against B.J.’s chest, and told him, “You know, if I sleepwalk like this, you’re coming along for the ride.”

B.J. settled his head against the pillow. “Mmhm,” he offered, coaxing Hawkeye toward a quieter volume.

“Or-or, if I wake up screaming, you’re getting an earful.”

Smiling softly, B.J. pressed a gentle kiss to Hawkeye’s temple. He brushed back his hair to kiss him again behind his ear, on his jaw, on the corner of his mouth. “You can quit trying to get rid of me, ‘cause I’ll be right here if anything happens, Hawk. Now shut up and sleep.”

Hawkeye had finally stopped fidgeting when Frank walked in. He brought with him flop sweat and thundering footsteps. B.J.’s heart hammered in time with each step, but he ignored it. He could feel Hawkeye’s small shift as their peace was invaded, but neither of them acknowledged Frank’s presence, choosing instead to lay together and feign sleep.

Frank wheezed the moment he noticed Hawkeye and B.J., his face going paler than the pearls he would have clutched had he been wearing them. “What are you _doing_?” he snapped.

“I was getting tired of waking up with strange men, so I asked B.J. to sleep with me for a change,” Hawkeye deadpanned. “He lets me be the little spoon.”

B.J. snorted.

"Oh, you two--you’re--that's disgusting!" Frank shouted.

B.J. unhooked his arm from Hawkeye’s body, resenting Frank for the draft of cool air that bombarded him, and worse still, the way Hawkeye immediately tensed up. His shoulders went rigid. His frown lines deepened. His fingers stretched and skimmed B.J.’s chest, just the ghost of a touch.

Frank inhaled, most likely to complain again. B.J. growled a very curt, “Shut up.”

"Does the Colonel know about this?" Frank whined every syllable in the long-winded question.

B.J. blinked innocently, all bright eyes and flirtatious lashes. "Of course. Doctor’s orders."

"And he approves?" Frank screwed his face up in his best ferret impression to date. "What has the 4077th come to!"

"Me," B.J. replied, hooking his ankle across Hawkeye’s, "ensuring everyone gets a solid night's rest. Including our Chief Surgeon, who we need at peak performance. And--and, you know, Doctor Freedman said Captain Pierce could tap into a fountain of unbridled rage or insanity at any moment, maybe start shooting people he thinks are the enemy! I just might be saving your life!"

Frank balked. He hastily turned off the remaining lights, keeping his narrow gaze fixed on Hawkeye and B.J. where they laid. Once the tent was dark, he flew into his cot like it was a bomb shelter. B.J. stifled a laugh; Hawkeye didn't.

"I'm awake right now, you half-wit!" Hawkeye shouted. The insult was almost lost behind that uproarious cackle.

"Careful," B.J. chided, "you're implying Major Burns has any wit at all."

"My mistake."

Frank sat up in bed, seething. “I have enough wit to report you two,” he threatened, eyes beady and triumphant.

Hawkeye snorted and cuddled closer.

"I'll make sure to keep my hands to myself," B.J. said loudly--too loudly--as he wrapped his arms around Hawkeye's waist.

"You'd better," Hawkeye replied at an even greater volume, tucking his nose against B.J.'s neck. "You're a married man, and I'm not just any army floozy."

"Knock it off," Frank begged petulantly, "I'm gonna be sick!"

B.J. barely heard him. All his attention was on the way Hawkeye's breath felt against his skin: warm, intimate, a little uneven.

"You didn't even buy me dinner first!" Hawkeye added for good measure.

He almost had a giggling fit when Frank stuck his fingers in his ears and yelped, “Lalalalalala! Can't hear you!”

"How's this--I'll buy you breakfast in the morning," B.J. whispered, just for Hawkeye, and hidden under Frank’s childish outburst anyway.

"Kiss me first and I'll think about it."

"Playing hard to get?"

"Something's hard, and it's not getting played."

B.J. rolled his eyes, and, shaking his head affectionately, pressed his lips together as he watched a smirk flit across Hawkeye’s lips. B.J. loved that smirk just as much as the self-conscious smile that came after it, that tiny flash of insecurity that B.J. wanted to kiss off Hawkeye’s face every time it appeared.

So he did exactly that, lingering just an inch away when he pulled back. Hawkeye’s eyes remained closed, but he smiled when B.J. murmured, “I love you.”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll sleep with you.”

B.J. smiled. And then it was bodies moving on starched sheets, cicadas buzzing in the night, and B.J. watching Hawkeye drift off to sleep to their song.


	4. Father Mulcahy

The water was miraculously on the warm side of lukewarm that morning. Hawkeye lined up his shower things in the most nonsensical order he could: toothbrush, soap bar, razor, rubber duck, washcloth, toothpaste, then shaving cream. When Charles  _ tut-tutted  _ and swept his Almighty-Judgy gaze across the assortment, Hawkeye told him that he figured since the war wasn’t interesting enough already, he had to throw some uncertainty into the mix.

Charles stood against the farthest wall, hissing insults under his breath all the while. Hawkeye stuck his head under the faucet to drown it out--or maybe drown himself, he wasn’t sure. “Beej!” he called from around his mouthful of water. “Put me out of Charles’ misery!”

From the second stall, B.J. chuckled. And then he did a wild thing. He reached across the divide and put his palm on Hawkeye’s forehead.

“Beej!” Hawkeye sputtered.

“Captain!” Charles squawked.

“Me!” B.J. exclaimed triumphantly. His hand maintained its prolonged pitstop on Hawkeye’s face. Smiling, he flexed his fingers, then continued, “I think you’ve got a fever, Hawk.”

Hawkeye stacked his hand on top of B.J.’s. He screwed up his face in mock concentration, then said, “Seems normal to me. Must be that you’re just not used to the water being so hot.” Both their holds tightened. “Your hands are a bit clammy, though.”

B.J. added another hand to the pile. “Mmm, you’re mixing up biology. Human, not shellfish. Now give me my hand back.”

“How selfish.”

“Don’t get crabby.”

Charles huffed from his place against the wall. “I’m certain you hooligans are capable of wasting time and water _elsewhere._ ”

“Oh, Charles,” B.J. began, his head tilting toward the disgruntled Major, “This is _quite_ serious.” He affected an accent on the last couple words, his smile widening at the same rate as Charles’ lips were thinning.

By then, there were four hands on Hawkeye’s head. Hawkeye shrugged and watched as B.J.’s arms rose and fell. His skin was rose gold under the steam, and Hawkeye wanted to lick the condensation off him.

“You might be right, Beej,” Hawkeye slurred, doing his best stumble in the limited space. “I’m lightheaded.”

“I called you _hot_ headed. Make up your mind.”

“Can’t!” Hawkeye furrowed his brows grimaced, groaning through his clenched teeth. “My mind’s on fire!”

Tenderly, B.J. tipped Hawkeye’s head back so he could check his eyes. “Gee, Hawk, this is terrible! We don’t have time to get to an office!” He mimed rolling up his nonexistent sleeves. “I’ll have to examine you here, and nothing half-assed. You’re my best friend, and a full body physical is the least I could do.”

Hawkeye nodded gravely. “Your stall or mine?”

Making a show of his consideration, B.J. swept his eyes across the stalls, the showerheads, and Hawkeye’s shoulders. Then he declared, “I’m coming over.”

B.J. bounced on his heels as if considering jumping the divider. He stuck his tongue between his lips, concentrating, narrowing his eyes as he measured the vertical distance. Hawkeye’s stomach hurt from holding in his laughter.

“On your mark,” B.J. began.

Charles threw in the towel--literally. That monogrammed material hit the floor. He stooped, shouting as he picked it up. "That is it! I've grown weary of these irksome antics!" When he left, he took most of the steam with him.

Hawkeye and B.J. stared after him for a moment. Once the door slammed shut, they both jumped like little kids in a candy shop, cheering and slapping one another’s arms.

“That was easy,” Hawkeye said.

“Just like you.”

Hawkeye seized his rubber duck, brandishing it at B.J.. Contriving his best _Little Caesar_ , he yelled, “You want me, you're going to have to come and get me!”

B.J. grabbed the duck from Hawkeye’s hand. Tipping his head to the side, he shrugged, smiled, and brandished the squeaky toy in an open palm. “See, like I said. Easy.”

Hawkeye’s laugh waned as they stared at one another. B.J. ducked his head, eyes smoldering, and then dropped the duck and bit his lip before reaching across the divider to grab Hawkeye’s face. He made an act of examining his chin and jaw while Hawkeye pursed his lips, face set in playful annoyance.

"I was right, Hawk. Something’s wrong! But you’re in luck, because I have the treatment right here.”

Hawkeye bounced his shoulders innocently. “Oh? Doctor, do tell.”

"Just one little thing," B.J. declared, and pulled Hawkeye in for a kiss. 

They kissed gently over the barrier, B.J.’s hands cupping Hawkeye’s face. It was delicate, barely more than lips pressed against lips and tasting slightly metallic water on each other’s mouths, but Hawkeye’s skin was flushed with warmth that had not been given by the steam.

Too soon, they broke apart for a breath. B.J. knocked his knuckle against Hawkeye’s chin for good measure, grinning. And over Hawkeye’s shoulder, frigid air swept in as the door swung open, bringing with it Father Mulcahy’s warbling rendition of _O Come All Ye Faithful._

_“Come and behold Him,”_ the Father sang. _“Let us adore Him.”_

“I’m trying,” B.J. muttered.

B.J. backed away from Hawkeye, who frowned. His hand lingered on B.J.’s chest, holding on while B.J. moved, and B.J. sighed fondly and forlornly once Hawkeye’s hand dropped away. It took a few more seconds for Hawkeye to fully register the _sanctus interruptus._

When he did, Hawkeye turned sharply to stare at the faucet. He switched the pressure to as high as it could go, letting it roar over most of B.J. and Father Mulcahy’s small talk. Then it came time for him to contribute, so Hawkeye spoke from under the water--“Out in a minute, Father,”--and scrubbed the skin where B.J.’s hands had been.

“My apologies!” Mulcahy acknowledged cheerfully. “I saw Major Winchester leave and assumed there was an available stall.”

Hawkeye dragged his own vicious fingernails against his scalp. “What you saw was Charles surrendering his one-man army to a two-man cavalry, only he didn’t give us any time to saddle up!”

“A little horseplay,” B.J. translated, cued by the Father’s quizzically furrowed eyebrows.

Mulcahy adjusted his glasses. “Ah, well, games make for good morale.”

Hawkeye could feel B.J. trying to get his attention, from the quick attempts at eye contact to soap bubbles flicked his way, but he couldn’t find the courage to return the favor. There was a landmine in his ribs, and if he acknowledged B.J., they’d be hard-pressed to keep the explosion contained.

Ignorance would have to hide their bliss, then. Hawkeye gritted his teeth and growled, “All I see is soapy water and lousy morale.”

“And now you’ll see me leaving,” B.J. added. He wrenched the water off, stepping out of the stall and waving his towel spiritedly above his head. There was an insincere grin plastered on his face as cutting eyes hacked away at Hawkeye.

Hawkeye turned the faucet to cold.


	5. Major Margaret Houlihan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't take place during a specific episode per say, but does happen somewhere after Season 6, Episode 12 and before season 7.

The nurse called time of death.

The nurse called time of death, and the pile of shrapnel with some patient attached was escorted out of the operating room. Father Mulchahy followed with tears in his eyes.

The nurse called time of death, and then she pulled out an x-ray for Hawkeye to examine, because his next casualty was on the table.

B.J. closed his patient, but his gaze continued to seek out Hawkeye at the other table. His eyes were dark and guarded, and B.J. wanted to hold him instead of the needle in his hand. But then there was another chest wound, and B.J. was calling for fresh gloves, and Hawkeye remained out of his reach. Un-held.

It was an excruciating four hours before they could scrub out. Even then, Hawkeye only had his gloves and mask off before he collapsed on the bench, his head in his hands, his legs pulled against his chest. From the center of the room, B.J. watched. He sighed and massaged his chest as if he could dispel the tightness there with sheer force of will.

“No single surgeon in the world could have done more, Hawk.”

Hawkeye sneered, “Maybe a pediatric one. They have more experience with kids.” When he looked up, there was still blood on his face. “Pretty soon they’ll be enlisting babies right out of the womb.” His breath caught on his final words, and he turned away, his profile stark against the light wood behind him. B.J. didn’t think he’d seen Hawkeye in any state but exhausted since getting to Korea.  


B.J. curled up onto the bench next to Hawkeye, his toes pressing into the sides of Hawkeye’s shoes. He held his arm out. And Hawkeye collapsed forward and into B.J.’s arms, face to his shoulder, arms around his waist. B.J. curled his hand around the back of Hawkeye's neck and held him like, if he stopped, he might forget how to. 

“After I’d arrived, after you held me on the side of the road like you did, Radar told me I’d get used to all this,” B.J. began, quietly, the memory being spoken for Hawkeye alone. “He told me,” and B.J. affected a weak impression of Radar, “‘Sir, we save almost everyone but not always everyone, sir, and it isn’t pretty, but you’ll start to see it as a little less ugly, soon, sir.’ And the pace and the conditions, I got used to.” He squeezed Hawkeye’s neck. “And the saving people--I got used to. But I still don’t think I’ve got a handle on the rest. Even though you told me I would, too.”

Hawkeye brought his head up from B.J.’s chest. They looked at each other for a long time before B.J. pressed his thumb to Hawkeye’s cheek. He let out a shaky breath, twisting his fingers in the hair by Hawkeye’s ear, soothing himself with that softness. Hawkeye closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Then B.J. said, “Tell me we’ll never get used to it.”

“Never,” Hawkeye whispered back. He sounded strained, exhausted. He inhaled, then released a puff of warm air on B.J.’s neck. “But I could get used to this.”

B.J. smiled--his first genuine smile in twelve hours--and gently kissed Hawkeye’s eyelids, hoping to deter the tears he could hear hiding in the cracks in both their voices. The movement took all of his remaining strength. His lips lingered on Hawkeye’s face, brushing his temples, his hair, before they both rested their foreheads together. 

They didn’t have days to spare. They didn’t even have minutes. But B.J. could have stayed pressed against Hawkeye for the rest of the war, their legs crossed at the ankles, Hawkeye’s arms wound tightly around B.J.’s hips. At the very least, he could have fallen asleep there as their hearts beat a slow, unison rhythm. 

B.J. felt Hawkeye relax against him. His eyebrows unfurrowed and the tension in his shoulders disappeared while they huddled together and, for a moment, forgot the world.

The world had different plans that day. The world was also, it turned out, a vivacious blonde with the rank of Major who liked to barrel like a bat out of hell into changing rooms.

“I don’t know _what_ you two are lollygagging around for,” she huffed, scrubs already half-off, “but we have patients waiting in post-op! People who need us!”

B.J. had pushed himself away from Hawkeye somewhere around ‘lollygagging’ and stretched to tie his sneakers as Margaret continued her tirade. Her voice caught and shook occasionally, and the insults were empty, laced with the pain they were all feeling. She kept her gaze fixed on her hands--tossing laundry into the hamper, scrubbing her forearms furiously, pulling her coat from the rack. B.J. kept his eyes on Hawkeye’s profile.

“Whenever you’re ready, doctors,” she hissed as she departed. 

Exhaling, B.J. stood to follow. “We better get out there.”

Hawkeye curled his fingers around B.J.’s wrist, pulling him back to the quiet moment before Margaret had stepped into the room. B.J. looked back at him, but he didn’t return to the bench. 

With a sigh, Hawkeye stood to face B.J., still holding his wrist as he moved. He squeezed B.J.’s hand, then dropped it and stepped away to finish removing his bloodied clothes. A few warm notes floated through the air as Hawkeye hummed and worked and hummed; after only a couple measures, however, he stopped abruptly and started to speak.

“I had a wonderful dream,” Hawkeye said on a yawn, stretching until a few vertebrae popped. He made a noise between a gasp and a groan, then resumed his story. “We were in Crabapple Cove, and I fell asleep watching you fish. You carried me home.”

B.J. grabbed his bloody mask off his neck so fast he snapped the strings. Tossing it into the trash, he asked, “That was the whole dream?”

Hawkeye paused in the middle of untying his apron to smile. He answered wistfully, “Nice, right?”

“Yeah.” B.J. cleared his throat. “Real nice.”

The changing room fell quiet save for the sounds of clothing dropping into laundry hampers. Other nurses and the remaining doctors came through, most of them already halfway undressed, all in and out of there as quickly as possible. Hawkeye and B.J. lingered. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the way their eyes kept darting back to the bench, or to each other, like they could return to that embrace if they wished hard enough.

Eventually, Hawkeye ran out of ways to stall. He was completely changed and his face was clean. He held up one hand in farewell, and B.J. almost--almost let him go.

“Hey, Hawk,” he called.

Hawkeye turned, still holding the door open. Sunshine streamed in and around his earnest face.

“One day you’ll wake up and the war will have been the dream, and I’ll pack up my gear and your books, and you’ll keep pretending to sleep anyway, and I’ll carry you home. Sounds nice, right?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Real nice.”

Hawkeye stepped outside, letting the door swing madly on its hinges as he left. And B.J. packed up his clean clothes, grabbed Hawkeye’s forgotten pen, and walked himself home.


	6. Colonel Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was a day late, everyone! We weren't entirely happy with how the chapter had turned out and decided to overhaul more than half of it. So--worth the wait? (Just say yes.)
> 
> This chapter is set somewhere in season 7 after "Peace on Us," but does not have a specific episode attached to it.

Hawkeye stood between Klinger and B.J., shouting at one man and barely holding the other back. Klinger’s newest gimmick was reverse-psychology, and he was playing a good little soldier, which meant no personal phone calls. B.J., brandishing a fist and a letter from home, had forgotten his pacifist ideals the second Klinger said no.

“Just one,” Hawkeye reasoned.

Klinger narrowed his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“Hello!” Hawkeye shouted, jerking his thumb at his jerk of a partner. “I’m the one who has to live with Scarface here!”

B.J. sneered, unamused. Relaxing in Hawkeye’s grip, he ticked off his reasons for calling home on his fingers, voice growing progressively sweeter with each item, “There are no casualties coming in, I haven’t spoken to Peg in months, her letter says _urgent_ , and--” he smiled, calculating, “and I guarantee I can get you some brownies out of it.”

Klinger’s smile rivaled the size of his nose. “Well why didn’t you say so to begin with! One San Francisco special coming a-right-up!” He turned toward the desk, fingers tapping rhythmically over dials.

“You’re a real paragon of the army attitude, Klinger,” Hawkeye mused. “Bribed into submission.”

Klinger smiled and patted his stomach. “A man’s gotta eat, Captain,” he told Hawkeye.

B.J. chuckled and tucked Peg’s letter back into his pocket. He winked at Hawkeye, then leaned against him while they waited for Klinger, and Hawkeye instinctively bunched his fingers into B.J.’s shirt. They were both anxious to get on the line with Peg, but B.J. was bouncing on his heels, his eyes darting between Hawkeye and Klinger.

“Relax,” Hawkeye complained, overly loud.

“ _Urgent_ ,” B.J. hissed. The lie didn’t reach his eyes.

Klinger had just reached Seoul and convinced them to patch him through to Tokyo when Potter emerged from his office. He was grinning and whistling and carrying his saddle, but then he saw the three men staring ravenously at the phone. His eyes narrowed as he summed them up, most of his ire settling on Hawkeye and B.J.--the usual suspects.

“Colonel,” Hawkeye greeted, simpering.

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” Potter sighed, “but you have five minutes.” He walked back into his office shaking his head.

“We got dad’s permission! That’s nice,” Hawkeye noted a little sourly. He and B.J. exchanged a frustrated look about the time limit, and then they both clapped Klinger on each shoulder.

“Chop chop,” B.J. encouraged, saccharine-sweet.

“Alright, alright, they’re through to San Francisco.” Klinger held the receiver out to B.J., who, despite all his previous toughness, stared blankly, frozen in place.

“Don’t mind him, wedding jitters,” Hawkeye offered by way of explanation, taking the receiver from Klinger. “He can’t find a green suit to match mine.”

Klinger didn’t even blink at the quip, instead choosing to shrug like those nuptial nerves were common knowledge anyway. He stepped away, but just barely, lingering at Hawkeye and B.J.’s backs as they both took their seats.

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. He put his palm over the phone, then waved his other hand mockingly. “Bye-bye, Klinger.” When the clerk was safely out the door, he uncovered the phone to say a quick hello.

The voice in Mill Valley was as unexpected as good food in the mess tent.

“Hunnicutt residence, Rita speaking.”

“Rita?” Hawkeye asked. Next to him, B.J. mouthed, _‘Rita?_ ’ Hawkeye’s lip quirked upward as he continued, “Um, I’m looking for Peg. Peg Hunnicutt.”

“And who am I speaking to?”

“Her husband’s husband.”

“Hawk!” B.J. shouted, grabbing for the receiver.

“What! What?” Hawkeye, chuckling, brushed B.J. off with a wave of his hand. He nestled the receiver into the crook of his neck. “As I was saying--”

“You must be Dr. Pierce,” Rita said over the static, her voice sweet like wine and laced with amusement.

“Yeah, the--the one and only.” Hawkeye gaped at B.J.. Under his breath, he muttered, “She knows who I am.”

B.J.’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “From that?”

“Uh-huh.”

They started at one another. There was static silence between South Korea and Mill Valley, and Hawkeye’s heart was slamming in his ribcage as loud as helicopter blades.

Rita’s voice, gentle and knowing, came back over the line. “Well, Peg should be down with Erin any minute now for breakfast. Or if you’d like I can call her down now--”

“Now hang on--!” B.J. exclaimed, finally wrestling the receiver from Hawkeye’s grip. “Rita? Yeah, hi, this is B.J. Hunnicutt--yes…” He paused, listening. A smile broke over his face. “Yes, I understand. From her letters. Yes! Yes, I just didn’t know that you’d been, well that you’d moved in. To help.”

Hawkeye leaned into B.J. and smacked him on the shoulder until B.J. turned the receiver out between both their ears.

“Well, here’s Peg,” Rita said, voice fading as she handed off the phone.

Hawkeye settled in to listen again. “Tawdry gossip?” He asked, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

“I’ll tell you later,” B.J. promised, while Peg’s voice sounded between them at the same time.

“I hope it's not concerning _me_ ,” she mused, sounding very much like she wouldn’t mind if it was.

B.J.’s face brightened immediately, and his hand found Hawkeye’s beneath the table. Hawkeye squeezed back, butterflies dancing in his belly, pleasant jitters dancing down his legs. He greeted Peg, then let B.J. take the lead.

“Honey! We were just speaking to your ‘friend’, Rita.”

Hawkeye blinked. “Oh,” he speculated, until it really clicked and he repeated, a little higher, “ _Oh_.”

B.J. shushed him. “Sorry, not you, Peg. Hawk’s just--”

“Being himself?” she supplied.

He chuckled while Hawkeye fake pouted. B.J. patted Hawkeye’s hand placatingly. “Yes, yes exactly. Anyway, darling, you never mentioned Rita had moved in.”

“Well, she’s been helping out with Erin while I’m at the coffee shop, and staying overnights, you know… And we do have that guest room. All made up for Hawkeye when you boys come home, of course.”

“Of course.” His eyes swam with something both wistful and resentful--one look for Hawkeye, the other for the reminders of the war around them: the drab clothes, the dirty floor, and the dwindling minutes that remained for their call. Hawkeye ran his thumb over B.J.’s knuckles, and B.J. cleared his throat. “Your letter said you had something to talk about, sweetheart. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, B.J., this is such good news!” Peg shouted. “Rita’s family business is architecture. They want to help with the new property. And I wanted,” she began, voice going very quiet, “I wanted to ask about your letter. About Hawkeye. If he should have a room.”

Hawkeye’s jaw dropped open while B.J. pulled the phone back like it was a live grenade. “Uh, Peg, looks like we’re out of time,” he stammered. Red blossomed high on his cheeks. Hawkeye stared and stared, trying to remember exactly how to breathe.

And then it was over; B.J. tossed the phone back in its bag, pulling his hand away from Hawkeye’s so he could wring them together. Hawkeye bounced his knee. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then peered between his fingers at his partner. B.J. looked scared--wild eyes studying the grooves in the desk, shoulders drawn inward--and Hawkeye hated that. But he also hated that B.J. had kept his plans secret. He inhaled deeply. “What did Peg mean? A room for me?”

B.J. swept some of Hawkeye’s more unruly strands of hair aside. He held Hawkeye’s face. “You know exactly what she meant,” he murmured, then dropped his hand.

“Beej… I can’t imagine being anywhere but Crabapple right now. I can... I can hardly imagine being _here_. This entire thing just feels like a nightmare, like if I follow the right steps I’ll wake up in Maine the next time I open my eyes.”

B.J. nodded. “Right.” He smiled, soft and a little sad.

Hawkeye took B.J. chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling B.J.’s eyes to his. “Hey. Ask me after the war.”

“Police action,” B.J. corrected, tilting his head to the side. He mirrored Hawkeye’s grip on his face but shook Hawkeye’s chin, too, letting out a breathy laugh as Hawkeye rolled his eyes.

Carelessly giddy, Hawkeye surged forward. His forehead collided with B.J.’s, and they both winced before Hawkeye kissed the offended areas, ending with a quick press of his lips to B.J.’s.

“What in the Sam Hill do you think you boys are doing?” Colonel Potter yelped from his office door.

Hawkeye winced when a chair hit the floor, then stared blankly at it as he realized it was his chair, and that he was standing even though his legs were putty. He tasted a mix of mothballs and rubber, dark and sticky and disgusting, both preventing him from offering any reasonable explanation because he had to swallow them down.

B.J. was statue-still and pale. He rose mechanically from his chair, then hoisted Hawkeye’s up and replaced both at the desk with surgical precision. Everything neat. Everything exactly where it was supposed to be--unlike two men kissing in an army office. Hawkeye’s brain cycled through the names of the bones in a human foot as he stared at his own.

“Get in here,” Potter ordered.

They fell in line like toy soldiers, one wooden step at a time.

Colonel Potter was standing behind his desk. His eyes were on the glass in his hand--scotch, freshly poured--but his gaze drifted up when his surgeons shuffled inside.

“Close the door.”

Hawkeye did. He rubbed at his throat before he turned around, willing it to cooperate and start talking them out of this. B.J. sat with a rigid spine and a blank stare. Hawkeye sat, too, but he folded his arms and dropped his head into them. He was quiet for a moment, a million questions racing through his mind.

Eventually, he felt B.J.’s hand on his knee.

“Klinger’s going to be so mad we’re getting out of here first.”

“Can it, Hunnicutt.” Potter set his scotch down, then pulled two clean glasses from a drawer. He poured them both a shot.

B.J. downed his without question. Hawkeye peeked over the rim of his glass at the Colonel, and Potter sighed. “You two are my best surgeons. Maybe the best surgeons in all of Korea. And If we discharged every man’s man in this army, we’d hardly have an army left.” He paused, a smile turning up the corner of his lip. “Plus, I don’t care, son. I’m glad someone is happy around here. I’m glad that someone is you.”

Hawkeye toasted Potter with a grin and swallowed his scotch. “Please, Colonel, the proper term is ‘gay.’”

Potter scrubbed his hands over his face, and then glared. “What if that hadn’t been me who walked in? Someone who didn’t know? For my best surgeons, you two are a pair of idiots if I ever saw ‘em.”

Lifting his eyes and mouth just enough to speak, Hawkeye asked, “Someone who didn’t--how long have you known?”

Potter waved the question away. “Damn near everyone in this MASH unit does. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.” He pointed to his office door, voice raising again, “And you’re not subtle!”

“Must be all the flirting.” Hawkeye offered, laughter bubbling under the sentence.

B.J. smoothed his fingers through his mustache. “And the groping,” he added, perfectly droll.

Potter sighed a long-suffering sigh. “Dismissed, Captains.”

They stood and Hawkeye immediately threw his arm over B.J.’s shoulders. “Or it could be all the cuddling in the changing rooms--”

B.J. elbowed open the office doors, face still completely neutral. “Showering together.”

“Sleeping together.”

“Dancing.”

“Late night strolls.”

“That’s the one,” B.J. declared. He snapped victoriously, and then he and Hawkeye walked arm in arm all the way back to the Swamp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you've all enjoyed this short piece. Thank for the wonderful comments! We couldn't have asked for a warmer welcome to the ship and fandom.

**Author's Note:**

> This is our first, but hopefully not our last, contribution to Hot MASH Summer 2020 (all our gratitude to gaysails and thealogie on tumblr for getting us into this show)!
> 
> You can find us individually on twitter @dykeoftomorrow (dykeannebonny) and @JasEdwards13 (ThirdActLove), or on tumblr together @ithappensoffstage!


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